Riding the Low Road
by Readwitch
Summary: Things never went Shepard's way. That's okay, she can roll with the punches. But, where can she turn when the military ceases to be an option. Who can she turn to and where will this new path lead her. Her destiny is in the stars, but what road will she travel. Femshep Cerebus AU You Cannot Escape Your Destiny


Riding the Low Road

Chapter One: This Is Not a Test

"It's not that I don't think you're capable. I have full faith that if we continued your training, a few years from you'd be out there killing a shit ton of aliens for us."

Jane Shepard watched as the sweaty, beady-eyed man took forever to get to his point. Captain Donovan had been talking in circles for more than 45 minutes, and she had yet to figure out where it was all leading. Short and pudgy, the man had worked himself into a sweat just pacing around the room like an overexcited rat, his watering eyes constantly darting to her but never for very long.

It was bad enough they moved her appointment a whole week earlier – out of the blue – but now they waste her entire day with this joke of a guide.

The Systems Alliance hosted, through a combination of government and private funding, a number of Preparatory Schools across the world to prepare young men and women with great potential for the various branches of the military. These schools worked as an after school program to help prepare teenagers to academic, physical, and military challenges they will face. More than that, it prepares them to be for application to one of the elite Military Academies that provide four-year education for provides leadership development alongside military training for those interested in becoming officers.

This was not one of those schools.

North Shore Military Preparatory Center tried, only somewhat successfully, to imitate these schools to give the underprivileged a fighting chance. Mostly, they operated as a quick enlistment center to get kids off the street. Government funding, and the occasional donation, gave North Shore the ability to provide housing and food for those willing to work for it. Mainly, it gave malnourished, uneducated kids an option for the future.

Jane Shepard's time at North Shore, though, was officially coming to a close. Her eighteenth birthday (or as close as she could guess) was next week, and it was time for formal enlistment and the start of her future.

Her future.

That was what they were supposed to be talking about. Her and Donovan would look over at her scores and successes to see what she was good at and what she still needed to work on. They would bullshit about her possible options – as if she was interested in any secondary education – before they gave up and he sent her on her way with her enlistment papers. She had already worked out what branch she would head to and everything, all she needed was his okay.

Originally, she should have been meeting with someone named Anderson – some hotshot Captain doing his good deed by inspiring the downtrodden or something – but apparently he got called away or something.

Instead, her meeting got moved up a week and she was stuck with Captain Donovan, who, unlike the Anderson fellow, had a permanent position at North Shore and no longer actively worked with the forces.

So, yeah, it was a big step down and a bit of a let down. But going from a decorated officer full of up-to-date knowledge and experience to … well, Donovan was more than a let down – it was worrisome. Hopefully, it was just a scheduling snafu, but, while she tries to stay calm and emotionless, the smug satisfaction lacing his words and hiding in his eyes put her on edge. Unconsciously, her hand loosely picked at the side of her pant leg.

Supposedly, Donovan used to be a great marine in his time, but Shepard just didn't care for the man. Out of shape, unkempt, and always shadowed by a lingering, distasteful smell, it was obvious that his time had long since passed. But that wasn't why she tried to avoid the man. After all, growing she and everyone surrounding her tended towards dirty and smelly. At least he didn't have the tinted, shadowed eyes and gaunt cheeks of the sand-blasted. No, what put her off was his attitude. Surly even to his superiors, he wore his disdain and contempt for the recruits on his sleeve. The individuals in this particular recruitment camp were not the best and the brightest, but they had earned – through blood and sweat if nothing else – at least professionalism.

Instead, Donovan had the nasty habit of treating the recruits, especially those he knew came from the streets, like dog shit he needed to scrape off his show.

Which is why it was... disconcerting to have him smirking at her.

"Despite my faith in your ability to kill for us, I really don't think there is a place for you in the Systems Alliance," he says, turning his mean, glinting eyes back to her.

"What?" It's a little more than a harsh bark, but it seemed louder in the quiet room. This has to be some sort of cruel joke... or a harsh test.

Without meaning to, Shepard finds herself taking a step forward, her fist tightening against her legs and pulling sharply at her pants leg. The emotionless veneer breaks and, with furrowed brows and gritted teeth, it's all too clear where her heads at.

"Let me be honest with you, _recruit._" Donovan snarls the last word, a reminder of her place. The glint in his eyes dares insubordination.

For a moment, she feels like meeting the challenge. Shepard is not a marine yet, and never will be according to him. If they're throwing her out anyways, then what's the worst punishment they can do to her. But she checks herself, hiding the emotion in her eyes, and snaps back to attention.

After all, it could just be a really cruel test. Throw this bullshit at her and see if she acts like she still runs in a gang or if she acts like a marine. She's been shining in all the tests – they wouldn't pull her out for no reason, especially not this close to graduation. With a deep breath, she listens through burning ears.

"This … facility... houses numerous kids like you. Street rats and gang bangers... the dregs of society. When they turn eighteen, we cut them loose. Most get funneled to the military – those that don't usually end up in prison or dead soon enough. We teach you how to shoot and get you into fighting shape – but with the type of kids we get, we also have to fill the enormous gaps in your education. Teach you the stuff you would have been learning if you hadn't been to busy stealing and getting high. The amount of lug-heads who arrive unable to even read fill me with disgust."

He cuts off with a spiteful sneer, and she needs to remind herself to breath. Her jaw is clenched tightly enough she fears for her teeth. She knew what Donovan was insinuating. She was able to read before North Shore – but definitely not a high level. It had been a real bitch to learn on the streets, mostly due to a charity group at the public library and her own indomitable stubbornness, and she was proud of her ability. She didn't look down on those that couldn't.

He turns away from her again, never looks at her for very long, and turns toward his window. Watches recruits aiming guns.

"And when these lucky kids – who had big daddy government feeding them, sheltering them, and washing behind their ears – when they turn eighteen, we offer them the world. The new world. They can go out in ships, make something of themselves, and live every heroic, childhood fantasy."

Shepard can see that he working himself up to something, coming to the part of the speech he is dying to say. He watches the recruits training and shakes his head to himself, blond hair flopping listlessly.

This is just a test. She repeats it to herself, keeps her back straight and her eyes forward. Emotionless, she prepares herself.

"We are not a charity designed to get kids off the street, even if that's what most of the propaganda show us as. The amount of money thrown at this place – and ones like it – it would be cheaper to just throw you all in jail. And you know that you can't argue the fact that at least half of you street dregs belong there."

The look on his face, another pointed insinuation, cemented in her mind that he believed she was one of those street dregs that should be rotting away in some jail cell. He was, of course, completely wrong. The only people in jail are the ones who got caught. She never got caught. Plus, under seventeen would only get her juvie unless they caught her on something particularly heinous.

Donovan pulls a bottle, some sort of whiskey, out from a side table. He pours a glass and leaves out the bottle, struttting to the center of the room until he is an arms length away. After a small sip, he takes a good long look at her

"We waste so much time and money on you. Not because of some... what do the brochures call it... limitless, untapped potential. You street kids and gang runners are used to harsh environments and harsher circumstances. And, once you know whose in charge, you take orders well. Throwing you into a war zone is a step up in the world. Hell, at least you get hazard pay. Dregs make good – but never great – foot soldiers. They're the sort of cannon fodder you don't have to feel guilty about wasting."

Shepard felt herself shaking and made a conscious decision to steady herself.

This had to be some sort of final test... it had to be. No way did the military just let some disgraced (he had to be, right?) asshole have full control of a school of impressionable kids who he held contempt for. She wanted to argue with him, tell him why he was, point by point, wrong.

But, that was the whole point, right? You do not tell your commanding officer, especially when you are as far down the rank of command as she is (you know, the not existing rank), that he is wrong. You do not argue with a commanding officer.

The captain had been right when he said that street kids took orders well. They knew better than to get mouthy with someone higher up than them. If you weren't prepared to fight and possibly die for your words, you kept whatever thoughts you had to yourself.

Shepard, though, had always been defiant and stubborn.

That was probably what this was all about. Put her in a room with a repugnant man that hit on every one of her sore spots. Have him spew the worst of his ignorant filth at her and see what happened. By now, if she wanted to do well in the military, she should have learned to hold her tongue... and her fist.

It's a test.

So, even though it bordered on physically painful, she just looked on at the captain, still standing in front of her with his drink in hand, through narrowed eyes.

"Sir...yes, sir"

The words were as respectful as she could make them... which, honestly, wasn't all that much. But she didn't attack him. And, in return, his slimy smirk grew, and the contempt on his face became more pronounced.

"You're... different, Shepard. You have potential. Your scores have been nothing short of extraordinary considering where you come from. And it isn't even just your physical skills... your marksmanship, tactics, survival, and reconnaissance scores have all been through the roof. You show a remarkable potential towards leadership. Some people up top have noticed, think you're some sort of diamond in the rough..."

Shepard ignores the sardonic grin on his face. Ignores the little chuckle he gives before he takes another sip of his drink and finally turns away from her, heading to his desk. She was too busy basking in the sick sliver of relief winding through her.

Outwardly, the only tell she can't hide is a single, thick swallow. Inside, some inner tension unclenches. This is proof. This is relief. This is, unexpectedly, triumph and vindication.

She knew she was able to shoot and run and... well, fight. Most street kids were. But here was someone telling her she was more than that.

Tactics and reconnaissance were just fancy words for things she already knew how to do. Be sneaky and clever. Know your enemy. Use common sense. Don't die.

It was... nice to hear that others, important others, thought well of her. It was a somewhat new experience. If she had been alone, she would have smiled.

But she's not alone, and Donovan's gone and opened his mouth again.

"That's why Anderson was coming down." The annoying sneer becomes more pronounced, and she idly wonders if there's bad blood. "He screwed up something big so they're giving their favorite the kid-glove treatment, letting him lure some hopefuls. Maybe they thought it appealed to his optimism. You were on his tour across recruitment facilities... of course, everything got a bit jumbled. S'why your appointment was moved to today." He takes another sip of his drinks, mulling over his words.

"But, I have final say on my recruits."

Shepard grinds her teeth but says nothing. She was sick of this cat and mouse conversation, but well aware that there wasn't anything to be done. He was trying to provoke her, and she couldn't let him succeed.

When she didn't give him any reaction, Donovan finished his drink in and set the cup aside.

"There are things you can't teach. You have a lot of potential for some of them – cleverness, resolve, resilience, restraint. I could go on... but there are others you and your kind don't have. Loyalty, honesty respect... compassion. You don't have that. None of you do."

Shepard wants to hurt him. Every part of her body is tense with the need to make him shut up.

But he keeps going.

"That's fine for most of these kids – they'll be grunt soldiers for as long as they last. But you... with you're potential, you'll rise quickly. Hell, you'll probably eventually get invited to the ICT program. You'll become a leader. Not just to grunt soldiers, but kids with real promise will look up to you and follow you to battle."

His face has lost his smirk. His head turns away from her, focuses on a frame on his desk, and his expression visibly softens.

"Someone like you – smart, strong, determined – you will never be a mere soldier. But you aren't... valiant enough to be a hero. If we let you, you'd rise quickly through the ranks... but you'd never be a hero. You'd end up sacrificing your troops or surrendering to the aliens if it meant saving your own skin. I've lost... good soldiers because of scum like you – and it won't happen again on my watch. You turn eighteen in three days – I expect you to be gone by then."

Sitting at his desk, he gives a dismissive wave of his hand and returns to his paperwork.

Shepard doesn't move. Her fists are tightly clenched at her side and her eyes glint dangerously. She swallows once... twice, but can't bring herself to speak, can't find the words. This.. this... how could this be real.

He glances up, still pretending like he honestly expected her to calmly leave after that pronouncement.

Prick.

"You're dismissed... Soldier," Donovan says, a hint of a sneering grin forming on the last word. She wants to cut it off his face.

She takes a breath.

"You can't do that. That's not your call to make." She's in denial, feels a bit hysterical honestly, but her words are firm. She keeps her voice soft and hard – not giving any ground and not becoming emotional.

She takes another breath.

Donovan glares up at her, dropping the stupid grin in favor of pinched lips. She imagined it was the same look he gave when his dog left him a nice surprise for him to accidentally walked in.

"I think," he growls, "you'll find that it is my call. And you better watch your tone."

Inside, she rages. While she hasn't quite managed respectful, her tone has remained even. Not once did it show her the snarl burning in her throat. Not once did it hint that she wanted to prove him right about how dangerous she was. She grits her teeth, takes another breath, and swallows the stream of insults aching to be unleashed.

She keeps her tone cool as she speaks.

"Maybe it is your call, but I'm sure you can't just toss kids out on the street because of a feeling and some bad memories. You have superiors, ones you've already admitted see potential in me, I can bet they wouldn't approve."

That gets her a reaction. He stands up with one quick movement, knocking his chair to the floor in his haste. His face is contorted in rage. If this was an actual fight, she'd be glad. An angry enemy is a sloppy enemy; a sloppy enemy is a dead one. But, here he has all the power. Making him angry will just make him more spiteful.

She curses herself. Maybe she didn't let her own fury affect her tone, but she certainly let it affect her actions.

"Do not, Shepard, dismiss my experience. My... superiors certainly don't. All they have are test scores, and they know as much as I do that test scores matter very little on the battlefield. They trust my judgment to make the final call." He shakes her head at her in disgust, kicking his fallen chair out of the way as he walks around the desk towards her.

"And here you are, proving my point without even realizing it. Real soldiers are proud... passionate. You sound like a politician or a crime boss – sly accusation and implied threats. Trying to weasel your way to something you don't deserve to have. I think you should remember that we are not taking anything away from you or throwing you out on the streets. You're turning eighteen – this is a place for children. You're almost an adult, it's your responsibility to plan for the future."

A flare of white, hot rage makes her voice crack as she responds.

"I DID make plans... to enlist and serve and FIGHT for my planet." She clenches her jaw, stopping anything else from coming out.

He is close enough that she could punch him or worse, but she refrains. In his deluded mind, he pretends to want passion, but an attack would just further prove the absurd point he thinks he is making.

"Then you should have planned better!" His words are loud and wild, mouth pulled back in an angry frown. He's practically baring his teeth at her. "You should've had a back-up plan – applied to college or gotten a job."

Apply for college with what education. Pay for it with what money. What job would take someone with no experience, little schooling, and no permanent address?

She can't hold back a scoff. It means her control is slipping... it means she needs to get out of this office before she does something that ends with her doing ten to twenty.

Hearing the scoff, Donovan takes a moment to collect himself. He straightens his posture and steps away from her, running through his blond hair. He still looks angry, his eyes still wild, but he doesn't look two seconds away from physically assaulting her.

"I want to make myself perfectly clear. This is not a discussion or a negotiation. We are not kicking you out of the program. This is a center for youths – and in three days time, you won't be a youth. We are not preventing you from applying to the military – you applied and didn't meet our standards. I have already discussed this with enlistment officials and even those higher up. Pursuing this – fighting this – will just leave you on bad terms with us. Handle this... gracefully, and, in a year, you can apply again for enlistment."

With a shake of his head, he grabs his glass from his desk and pours another drink. Instead of taking a drink, though, he walks back to her.

"Remember – you still came out ahead. You got housing, education, a Systems ID card, even some money if you were smart. That's more than you had before. Smile at your fortune."

Shepard didn't smile. Her eyes were burning, but she blinked it away. She adjusted her gaze to the ground, allowing her hair to fall and the shadow to cover her expression.

"I don't," she swallowed hard, practically tasting her pride, "I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Frankly," he says, "that's really not my problem."

She wants to make him hurt. She can't see him through her hair, but she knows he's probably smirking at her. Superior and smug. He's taking away the only chance she's ever had in life – a chance she worked hard for and earned – and he's enjoying it. She wants to make him pay.

With a nod barely more than a jerk of her head, she exits the room and leaves the aging captain alone with his drink.

She rushed through the gray, rundown hallway – full of flickering lights and painted over graffiti – with no real destination in mind, unable to bring herself to think of the future just yet. Right now, she was in flight or fight mode. She had always thought of herself as a fighter, but instead she was fleeing like a frightened rabbit.

It was shameful.

She wanted to go back to that room, back to the captain, and show the passion and fight she had in her. Honestly, she wanted to show him the hidden blade she kept in her pant leg... but that wouldn't accomplish anything. Maybe she wanted to be a fighter, but the captain was right in a way – first and foremost, she was a survivor. If she fought back, argued with him and the enlistment board, she would just get blacklisted. If she fought too hard, well she had past that could easily be exploited. Sometimes, no matter how it hurt her pride, surviving meant running and hiding. And, right now, she was running.

A grunt escaped as her shoulder slammed against someone when she rounded a corner, but she kept going, ignoring the shout already behind her. At this time of day, when there weren't very many people in the hallways, she still managed to hit someone. But she couldn't stop... not without screaming or punching something. Now that she was moving, thinking, reacting – she couldn't stop. Her heart was racing and her breathing grew heavy. She had no idea what to do.

Actually, she was breathing a bit heavier than she should be. Shepard stopped at the next corner, tried to center herself. She needed to calm down.

Ignoring the few people that passed by, eyeing her weirdly, she clutched at the wall with one hand as she took a few deep breaths, even going so far as to close her eyes. But, no matter what she did, her heart pounded faster and her lungs refused to work right.

Without another thought, she took off towards her bunk, needing privacy to get herself under control. If she was going to freak out, she damn well wouldn't have spectators.

Luckily, the room was free from any of her ever rotating roommates when she got there. She grabbed a desk chair, shoving it against the door. Unlike the captain's fancy office, the dorm rooms still had manual doors, ones that lacked any locking mechanism. The chair wouldn't keep anyone out for long, but it would let her know someone was coming in and give her time to regroup.

Shepard didn't bother turning on the lights. She just about collapsed on her bed, roughly taking a seat on the edge with her feet firmly on the floor. Her elbows slammed against her knees as she cradled her head in her hands.

Shit. What was she going to do.

The dark quiet room was better than the bright hallway, but she still couldn't catch her breath. Worse, now that she wasn't moving, she realized she was actually shaking.

She really was like a fucking rabbit. She rubs roughly at her eyes as she felt the sharp betrayal of tears forming.

No. She was not going to cry. This is not the worst thing that has happened to her by far. She didn't cry when she was picking through garbage for some food or huddled in a box to hide from the rain. She didn't cry when she almost froze to death in the cold winter months. She didn't cry the first time she stabbed someone. Why the fuck would she cry know?

So she was excluded from a stupid group of boys pretending to be men... pretending to be heroes – killing and dying for a government that saw them as disposable. When the creepy four-eyed aliens attacked that french colony a couple years back – Minidor? - the Alliance wasn't there to protect them. Instead, they retaliated and attacked a civilian colony just like the aliens had done. Yet, they saw themselves as the moral right.

Who cared if they don't want her because of some idiotic ramblings from a bigot long past his prime.

Fuck!

She..

The door jerked against the chair, startling Shepard from her thoughts. She jumped from the bed and, in one quick movement, had pulled and slid the chair into its rightful place. Whoever was looking to get in would probably just think the door got stuck, but she really didn't care. She just needed to be alone – was there anywhere in this place she could be by herself.

She grabbed her bag just as the door opened and shoved her way past her confused roommate, Kendal. She had been around for a number of months now and was a few months away from the end of the program. Not much potential, Shepard was pretty sure the girl was addicted to something. No concrete proof, but Shepard wouldn't want this girl to be the one watching her back.

"Hey, is something up with the door?" Kendal asked, eyes a bit hazy.

Shepard, already halfway down the hall by the end of the question, gave only a dismissive wave over her shoulder. Two intersections down and one turn, and Shepard finds the female bathroom. Thankfully, it's empty, but it won't stay that way for long.

She passes a row of lockers, throwing her bag onto the floor. She looks briefly at the mirror – the flushed face and shiny eyes staring back at her seem unfamiliar. It's her – disheveled, red hair cut just below her ears, light skin with a dash of freckles, bright green eyes. But something in the pitiful, defeated expression makes her a stranger to her own reflection.

She turns away quickly, roughly pulling at her clothes. She doesn't wait for the water to warm up before heading into a stall... it's not like the water gets much higher than lukewarm anyways.

She concentrates on the water running over her and tries to force the sound to overcome her thoughts. Shepard closes her eyes, lifting her head up into the water stream. She's been running on overdrive since she left the office, and that won't get her anywhere. Panicking won't help her.

Neither will feeling sorry for herself. She needs a plan. If she doesn't think this through, doesn't do something, she'll just end back up on the streets.

The Reds would probably take her back – after some punishment – for the Alliance information if nothing else... but, while she's pissed right now, she doesn't want that. Maybe she's not good enough for the military, but she's damn well better than some two-bit earth gang. She wants a future... maybe even a family – and that won't happen in the Reds.

That's probably why this is so hard.

Yeah, she's faced worse than this. Up 'till now, she did whatever it took – stealing, conning, fighting – to survive. This place, at first, was just an extension of that. Some people were pissed at her, and she needed a place to hide out. She figured she'd play along with the propaganda for a little while, get some free food, and then skip out when the time was right. Instead...

She liked it. Not just the food or the showers or the bed, although that was great, but all the little things. She enjoyed getting to learn about history and people. She liked weapons training. She liked that she didn't have to worry about some attack or retribution. That there were people who she could talk to without being worried about a knife in the back. That she could think and plan for a future... that she could maybe, one day fight to protect something or someone instead of over territory.

She had hope.

This... looming feeling of... despair... it wasn't about losing the roof over her head or guaranteed meals. The loss of hope – hell, having hope in the first place – was a new situation.

One she wasn't very fond of... why bother hoping when it just ends up crashing down on you.

Fuck it! She was not going back to the streets – not even temporarily. She wasn't some sort of psychopath like that jerk Donovan kept implying, she wasn't short on passion either. But she was smart, determined, and dangerous. She'd survive and get away from this damned city – this damned planet – even without the help of those slimy Alliance hypocrites.

Maybe she could stowaway on a ship. Though she doubts they'd accept a human with no background, she could try to get into the citadel's security team. She'd probably have to start as a janitor or something first, but at the very least they'd have no knowledge of her time on the streets. Hell, if she had to, she could always try out mercenary work on Omega. And there are probably other big set ups out there that she's never heard of... maybe even work on a colony.

She would do whatever it took to get out of here.

Shepard reached out and turned off the water, finally feeling a bit more calm. She gave a quick shake of her head and ran her hands through her hair to get rid of some of the excess water. The shower had been the only place she could think of that promised solitude, but the water made her feel cleaner and lighter. Or maybe that was just the clear head.

She grabbed her towel and began to dry off, shaking her head at the pile of clothes she had carelessly left out in the open. Her hidden blade and her omnitool were both included in that pile... it was stupid and sloppy. Two things she could not afford to be.

She dressed herself, ignoring the way the cloth clung to her still damp body, and headed back to her room. She'd probably end up in the computer lab eventually, but it didn't hurt to get everything organized in case she had to leave in a hurry.

She wasn't sure she could trust Donovan and his three days.

When she opened the door, however, she found Kendal still in the room. The other girl was in the middle of the room, her own bag sitting on her bag and clothes and other odds and ends all over the floor. Shepard wandered through the mess and took a seat on her bed, placing her own stuff next to her so it wouldn't get lost in the mess.

"What's going on, Kendal?" Shepard asked, wary of the frenzy look on the other girl's face. Dark hair and features, Kendal was shorter than her by several inches, barely hitting five feet. Even after a year at the facility, the younger girl was skinnier than she had any right to be. Most people ended up fit – Kendra just looked sickly. It was one of the reasons Shepard assumed she never quite quit some of the habits she had on the street. The fact that she hadn't been caught pointed to a sly mind when properly motivated.

And now she looks motivated... or crazed.

"What's going on?" Kendal sneers, haphazardly shoving clothes into a duffel. "I'm leaving this place – never coming back!" For a moment, Shepard wonders if Kendal suffered the same treatment she did and is being forced to leave. She feels a familiar rush of anger, but ignores it for now. After all, Donovan was a prick, but he was clear with his reasons, deluded as they were. Kendal is still months away from 18, and, once on the front lines, would probably get herself killed soon enough.

Plus, Kendal seems a bit to... giddy... for a forced departure. Not unless she was planning on blowing the place before she left. Shepard raised an interested brow, gesturing her to continue. With a manic grin, obviously pleased to have an audience, she did.

"I'm sick of this place – all the stupid rules and regulation. You can't eat this, you have to run here, why didn't you send me your homework." Her voice shoots to a mocking soprano, flipping her hands with each sentence. Shepard can't help the tiny bubble of amusement. "And all the datapads floating around – the stupid amount of stuff you have to read. Who cares about the details of the first contact war, we all know what happened. All I need to do is shoot stuff. And I already know how to do that."

Kendal scoffed before jumping onto her bunk, digging around where the side of the bed meets the wall. Shepard kept an intent eye on her, even as she began to carefully pack her own bag. She grabbed and folded her own clothes, mostly basic, unisex stuff supplied by the facility. Nothing fancier than sweatpants and cargos. As she packed, she kept careful track of what she had so she could figure out what she needed...and to make sure no one had taken anything.

Kendal, who had found and packed whatever had been hidden away, took no such care.

"So," Shepard finally asked, packing some toiletries for her journey, "what made you decide to leave now? You only have a couple of months left before you can go out and 'just shoot stuff.'" She only slightly curious – wants to make sure Donovan isn't getting rid of all the street kids he can – and the disinterest is apparent in her voice. It only eggs Kendal on.

"I got a better offer," she says triumphantly, giving Shepard her attention. "Unlike you, I'm not gonna have to join the marines. You can join up and kiss all the alien ass you want, not to mention follow all the boring rules and regulations. I'm taking a better offer."

Practically humming with excitement, she grabs a datapad out from her bad. It's a little scuffed up, but obviously belongs to the recruitment facility.

Shepard idly wonders how many items are in the bag belong to this place... and what she should grab before she heads out.

After pressing a few buttons, Kendal tosses the datapad at Shepard without another word.

"I've got a cousin working in Terra Firma... doesn't talk to me much sense I got kicked out, but he doesn't hate me like the rest of my family. He just sent this over to me, and it sounds like a much better plan than becoming another military monkey," she says turning back to her packing.

Shepard ignores her as she continues to chatter, too busy examining the information on the pad. It talks about what the organization offers all recruits – good starting wage, health care, basic training, and any necessary supplies – as well as some of the possible areas of advancements and the perks included.

It looks sort of like military for the private sector, although some of the information listed makes them seem questionable. They seem completely pro-human, though, showing why Terra Firma would know of them. Whatever they do, it would have to be better than mercenary work and probably a hell of a lot easier to start. Plus, if Donovan was correct about one thing, she wouldn't have any trouble rising in the ranks.

Shepard quickly copied all the relevant information about this... Cerberus to her omnitool. Time to make plans and get the hell out of the recruitment facility.


End file.
